It was a plaintive howl from under the window, the voice of a man who was afraid.
"Master Jasper—horse-thieves in t' yard!"
The lattice opened, and a pair of broad shoulders caught the moonlight.
"What's this—Jack——?"
John Bumpstead, the groom, was squeezing himself against the wall.
"Dear Lord—sir—they've bruk into t' stable. Me and Jim Burgess tumbled up to see what was wrong. We couldn't face pistols, sir. They be there still, sir——"
"What! The infernal rogues! Here, take the blunderbuss, Jack, and have a blaze——"
"Master Jasper—I dursn't——"
"You're not man enough to scare rooks!"
The figure disappeared from the window, and from the moonlit room came the sounds of an active young man plunging furiously for his clothes. Anything served; a frilled shirt, the red coat of a lieutenant of volunteers thrown over a chair, a pair of riding-breeches and rough boots. A hanger hung from the bed-post, and there was the blunderbuss in the corner. Jasper Benham went down the oak stairs with the clattering impetuosity of a boy playing hide-and-seek. He drew back the bolts of the heavy porch door, and ran the oak bar out of its socket.